


Team Work

by Anonymous



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Author Pretends to Understand Sports, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Marijuana, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24950749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It was Coach who forced them to work out their shit. Said the bad blood between them was impacting the team.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Kudos: 79
Collections: Anonymous





	Team Work

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the vague no man's land between seasons 2 and 3. 
> 
> Underage because they are in high school but above the age of consent.
> 
> Warning for one use of the f-word in a context of internalized homophobia.

It was Coach who forced them to work out their shit. Said the bad blood between them was impacting the team. And the old man was right: it was hard to win games when the two best players could barely look at each other, let alone execute a strategy. After one too many fumbled plays in practice, Coach's whistle cut through the shrieks of rubber soles on hardwood floor. 

"Everyone, drills with Mills," he yelled, pointing to their Assistant Coach. "Harrington! Hargrove! Come on over." 

Coach rolled his eyes at their almost identical "Who me?" expressions and started ambling to the back of the gym, toward the locker rooms and offices. The rest of the team watched in naked fascination as Billy and Steve froze, made inadvertent eye contact, and followed after him. 

A few minutes later, they found themselves locked – maybe literally, Billy wasn't sure – in a cramped supply room. After a brief lecture on teamwork and brotherhood and maturity, Coach had made for the door. "I'll be back in one hour, and I expect that you will bury the hatchet by then," he instructed. 

There among towers of dusty old mats and bins of ancient equipment, they stood and stared at each other, their bodies echoing that face off from months ago outside the Byers. Harrington's face had returned to its pristine state, as clean and pretty as new fallen snow; Billy's fingers itched to mark it up again. 

Worse, Steve had the gall to look bored in that arrogant way of his. He waved a hand and asked, "So, uh, what do we have to do to move this along?" 

"What, Harrington, you scared?" Billy snapped. 

"Not really," Steve answered, and then his voice dipped a bit lower. "But I think you are." 

He said it almost kindly. 

Next thing Billy knew, he had Steve pushed up against the cement wall. His body pressed against Steve's. He could feel the beating of their hearts and lungs, equally strong but slightly out of sync. He was staring right into Steve's face, and he could see little beads of perspiration on his brow, and he had no idea what to say. 

Steve's eyes widened and then crinkled with amusement. "Dude. You are wound tight!" 

He then reached in the pocket and pulled out a small plastic baggy, which we waved in Billy's face. It contained three neatly rolled joints. "Wanna chill out?"

Billy had to admit he hadn't seen that coming. 

He eased his grip and stepped back, giving Steve some room. "What the fuck, Harrington? You keeping that in your gym shorts?" 

Steve shrugged. Then he scanned the room, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Oh hey, help me move these under the window." He walked over to the mats and started dragging them around, looking and sounding like an upbeat camp counselor. 

Billy watched for a moment and then joined in. 

They made a nest of vinyl and foam under the window. Steve struggled with the window crank, which probably hadn't been turned since the 50s, and eventually let Billy do it. Billy felt a warm flush of satisfaction as the glass pane finally burst open and cold winter air rushed in. 

"Nice work, big guy," Steve said amiably, thumping him lightly on the shoulder with one hand and handing him a joint and cheap plastic lighter with the other. Billy felt, absurdly, like he was being knighted. 

It was then that Billy understood the King Steve thing. It had confounded him when he first arrived in Hawkins. Why was everyone so obsessed with the rise and fall of this douche-bag prep with his balls in a basket for Nancy Wheeler? 

But sitting here -- about to smoke dope on school property, in the middle of basketball practice, no less -- feeling his own stupid pleasure at Steve's pleasure, it crystallized. 

Steve had been King because his approval felt like a reward. Like he was sharing something special with you. Like you'd done something good, even it was dumb and you were dumb and Steve was dumb. 

And the cocky bastard didn't even seem to try -- Billy could see how easily and lightly Steve wore his own skin, like an old comfortable sweater. (A designer sweater. Very expensive.) 

Billy and Steve sprawled on the mats, close but not touching, smoking for a while without talking much, just letting the weed bake into their bones. It was strong shit. Pungent smoke mixed with cold air from the window. 

Billy felt aware of the bigness of their hands, the smallness of the joint, the way their fingertips almost touched as they passed it back and forth. He imagined he could taste the dampness Harrington's lips left on the rolling paper. 

Fuck, he was so high already. 

Billy began to feel the ocean in his head, between his ears, and his shoulders slumped in that good way, the tension releasing. They commented on the quality of the weed -- Harrington had connections, apparently -- in between lapses of silence that were surprisingly pleasant. 

Suddenly Billy remembered the reason they were there. Freaked, he glanced at the clock on the wall, thinking Coach would open the door any second and they'd be busted.

"What the hell, man?" Steve said, sounding far away. "You looked like you about to shit yourself!"

"I thought for sure it was 4:15 and Coach was coming through that door," Billy said. "But it's only been 19 minutes." 

They shared a look and burst into laughter, the kind of laughter that feels a lot like crying. The laughing doubled them over, and their shoulders bumped together. Billy honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed that hard. 

He wiped moisture away from his eyes, a familiar feeling that made him queasy even as he couldn't stop smiling. Coach's directive tugged at his brain. He knew, with drug-enhanced clarity, what he had to do. 

"I'm sorry," he said. 

"What?" Harrington said. It was clear he'd heard perfectly, his dilated pupils fixed squarely on Billy, who was unhappily reminded of the forced eye contact that came with apologizing to his father. He resisted the urge to look away. 

"I'm sorry for beating the shit out of you that night," Billy muttered. "I... overreacted." 

There was a quiet beat. Steve gave him a long, evaluating look, and then grinned a little ruefully. 

"Yeah, guess so," he said lightly, and pulled on the joint. As the smoke escaped his lips, he continued, "You were a fucking maniac. Remind me not to hide shit from you again. In my defense, you were being a raging asshole bully to those kids." 

Billy released a breath he didn't realize he was holding and nodded, because it was the plain truth. But he thought -- maybe -- there was a hint of absolution in Steve's response. The beginnings of forgiveness. Or perhaps just a sign that Steve Harrington didn't hold grudges. 

That thought -- and the camaraderie of a shared joint -- gave Billy the courage to confront a question that had haunted him since the fight. 

Back then, he'd been on edge for days, waiting for the cops to show up at the door. That night, Max had been delivered home by Nancy Wheeler -- of all people -- with some bullshit story about a sleepover, a miscommunication, and a thousand apologies for worrying everyone so much. Neil and Susan couldn't resist a Good Girl like Wheeler and swallowed the whole thing whole. 

When Billy showed up an hour later in a dented car and acting half-drunk, his dad was disappointed and let Billy know. As Billy stumbled into his room later, blood seeping from a cut on his lip, he knew it could've been much worse. He also knew he wasn't out of the woods. 

It all depended on Harrington. Would he tell his parents? Would they call the cops? 

Billy knew he deserved it. He could've killed the guy if Max hadn't -- somehow -- stopped him (the details of what happened remained infuriatingly unclear, and he was too ashamed and confused to ask her). 

Still, deserving or not, he was grateful as hell as the anxious days turned to weeks and nothing happened. 

What cinched it was Harrington returning to school, only half-healed but his gaze on anything but Billy. He acted like Billy didn't exist. Despite the evidence on his own face, Steve wanted to pretend the fight didn't happen, and Billy knew that play by heart. He followed Harrington's lead.

Until now. 

"Why'd you never press charges?" Billy asked, going for casual, like the thought had just occurred to him, and probably failing. 

Steve raised an eyebrow, looking mildly surprised that Billy would go there, examining the joint that was burned down to a little finger-burning nub. He retrieved the plastic baggy from his pocket and carefully deposited the roach back inside.

King Steve was taking his sweet time to answer. 

And Billy, who'd smoked his weed and sought his forgiveness and asked the question, had no choice but to wait patiently like a royal subject. 

The Billy who had first arrived in Hawkins would've beat the shit out of this Billy. 

"I dunno man," Harrington said, but Billy was certain he did know. "To be honest, you weren't at the top of my list of problems that night." He chuckled at the scowl that Billy couldn't suppress. "I knew it would drive you crazy to hear that." 

Steve paused, like he was debating whether to continue or not. Then: 

"Honestly? Max begged me not to say anything." 

Billy closed his eyes. Of course. That little bitch. Just like her to fuck with his life and then try to save it. He hated her so much. She knew too much about things she would never understand. Things had been so much easier before Susan and Max, when it was just him and dad. It wasn't pretty but at least it was simple. He only worried about himself, no one watching with sad eyes, changing the rules... 

He heard Harrington saying, "Hell if I know why, but she seems to really care about you." 

Maybe it was the weed, or weirdness of this situation, or the fact that he was a crybaby faggot just like his dad always said, but hot tears sprung in the corners of his shuttered eyelids. Fuck. He wanted desperately to rub them with the heels of his hands, but then King Steve would know. King Steve couldn't know. 

"Billy, are you crying?" Harrington asked gently. 

Billy blinked rapidly and didn't answer. They were sitting way too close. This was dangerous territory. Billy had been here before, in other rooms, with other boys, miles and lifetimes away. The feeling of being high or drunk, and of his body moving a beat ahead of his mind: he knew where that led. 

It led to hookups that had no clear beginning or end. It led to the heavy weight of another guy's junk in the palm of his hand. It led to hot, quick, mean coming that left him floating but scared to look the other boy in the eyes. 

Billy hauled himself to his feet. He whirled around just as Harrington did the same. Billy inhaled a breath, ready to tell Harrington off, ready to throw a punch, ready to do whatever it took to make this insanity stop -- 

The door opened. 

Coach stood silhouetted there, his big bulk filling the frame. 

Reality snapped back into place, the sober and sobering world of Hawkins that never seemed to melt away, no matter how much Billy drank or smoked. 

"Time's up," he said. "Did you boys make peace?" 

They both gaped at him, probably speechless for too long, and then King Steve remembered himself. 

"Yeah, Coach. Yeah. We talked through some things. We're cool." 

"Is that so, Billy?" Coach said. Of course he'd be skeptical about Billy -- the wild card, the delinquent. 

Billy looked from Coach from to Steve. The panic he'd been feeling was already ebbing away with the tide of King Steve's favor, something he'd wanted all along, a desire he'd attempted to hide from others -- and mainly himself -- behind his old standbys of bluster and bullying. 

Billy understood, all at once, that he was powerless to resist whatever it was that Steve was doing, whether or not Steve knew he was doing it. 

In other words, Billy was screwed. 

"Yeah, Coach. We've got an understanding." 

"Good," Coach said. "I trust I'll see that on the court. Practice is over. Hit the lockers." 

He started to turn walk out but turned back. 

"And Harrington? Leave that window cracked. It smells like a goddamn commune in here."


End file.
